


What Became of Us

by theSapphireSky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: Her face was painted in tears, but she kept her head high. “I need to move on.”She took his letter and set it on the table by the door. Her fingers drifted over his words one last time.“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”





	1. Past Mistakes

**Six Years Before**

“Coward.”

Sherlock Holmes looked up from his books in surprise. The object of his distraction stood on the threshold of his study, her bonnet clenched in her hand.

“Molly,” he began and stood.

Her eyes flashed with fire. “You do not have any right to call me by name. Not after this.” She withdrew a paper from her sleeve. His letter, he realised with mingled shame and regret.

It was crumpled on one side and he knew if he were to see it closer, tearstains would smudge the ink. Her tears.

“Miss Hooper,” he tried again, softly but no less decided. “You and I both know I can never be the husband you deserve. It is kinder that you realise it now so you can marry someone who will take care of you.”

Suddenly, she was in front of him, and his cheek burned like fire. She cradled her hand against her chest, tears in her eyes.

“How dare you think of me as some simpleton. I can take care of myself just fine, as you well know. Just admit, Sherlock, that you are afraid. Afraid to be loved.”

He rubbed his stinging cheek and dropped all attempts at gentility. “The only thing I fear is becoming as weak and sentimental as the rest of you. You cannot make me love you, Miss Hooper. It would be best if you accepted that and moved on.”

He swept back to his desk and busied himself rearranging his books.

“I won’t accept it,” she finally said, sorrow in every word. “Because I know you love me already.”

He stilled.

He heard her move toward the door, her skirts rustling. The handle creaked and he held his breath.

“But you’re right.”

He looked up in surprise.

Her face was painted in tears, but she kept her head high. “I need to move on.”

She took his letter and set it on the table by the door. Her fingers drifted over his words one last time.

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

oOo

**Present Day**

Watson lumbered behind Holmes as they raced down the streets of London in pursuit of their quarry.

“Come, Watson, he evades us!”

It would be easier to make chase had they not been dining on such a heavy meal beforehand. Watson ignored his protesting stomach and willed his legs to go faster.

Holmes rounded the corner and he was right behind. The younger man took a flying leap over the guardrail and tackled the fugitive to the ground. Watson leaned on his knees to catch his breath while Holmes subdued the man.

A chorus of whistles sounded behind them, growing louder as Scotland Yard raced their way.

“Ah, Watson,” Lestrade huffed as he ran up to him, sweat beading his brow. “This our man?”

Holmes hauled the man to his feet and shoved him at a nearby officer. “Henry Jameson, believed to be killed by the same fire that took his wife. How convenient that she was in bed with her lover when he started the blaze.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “Blimey. Well, that certainly explains the discrepancies in our investigation. Well done, Holmes.”

Holmes smirked and gestured for Watson to follow him, leaving Scotland Yard to clean up the mess. The crowd dispered around them and they walked in the direction of Baker Street. How fortuitous that the chase had led them close to home.

Watson was dreaming of a refreshing bath, followed by a quiet evening resting his poor, abused feet, when he suddenly ran into Holmes’ back.

“Holmes?”

Watson looked down the street to see what had captured Holmes so entirely.

A young lady was heading their way, her head down. She was petite and pleasantly featured. And wearing the black color of mourning.

“Molly.”

Watson blinked in surprise to not only hear Sherlock speak so softly, but to address a lady by her Christian name.

The lady, Molly, looked up. Her cheeks darkened and recognition flashed across her face. “Mr Holmes,” she said in surprise. She belatedly bobbed a curtsy as both men tipped their heads.

She looked ready to bolt, but Holmes subtly stepped in her way. “You have returned to London, then.”

“Only just.”

Watson suddenly realised neither were aware of his existence.

“My condolences on your loss. Your father?”

Had Watson believed it would do any good, he would have smacked Holmes upside the head for his highly improper question.

However, this woman was hardly surprised by Holmes’ abruptness. Her lips twisted downward. “My husband, actually. It will be one year come October.”

Holmes swallowed audibly. “I am sorry.”

Her brown eyes shimmered and some unspoken thing passed between them, making Watson wonder just what he had missed.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice quivering, and quickly walked around them. Holmes turned to watch her retreating figure, his jaw tight.

“Holmes?” Watson nudged when his friend continued to stare after the woman long after she had vanished from sight. “Do you want to talk about it?”

It was a long shot and he didn’t actually expect an answer. Holmes was an intensely private person and it had taken several years to build their friendship to this point. But Watson was under no delusion that Holmes still did not feel comfortable sharing most of what went on in his personal life.

Which is why it came as such a surprise when Holmes replied.

“Her name is Molly Hooper.” The Detective’s eyes glazed over, a well of emotion in their seafoam depths. “The love of my life.”


	2. Present Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Aww, y'all love angst just as much as I do. Have a bit more of it. I may do an epilogue after this to wrap it all up with a nice Happy-Ending-Bow. But for now, this tale is told.

He never anticipated he would be in this situation. Upon her engagement, he had buried his feelings deep inside his heart and covered them with layer upon layer of disdain and pride.

The man she had married was a simple dullard of a man, a ponce if he’d ever seen one, who spirited her away to the north. But with him, Molly was happy and safe. And so, Sherlock proceeded to carry on with his life, without her, but not one day went by that he did not think on her.

No one knew of his feelings for the young woman. No one knew his pain, his longing for something that he had thrown away, the regret that tore him up inside.

Until now.

Watson took a sip of his tea, eyebrows raised expectantly, as Holmes drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“Very well, you may ask your questions,” Holmes sighed.

He expected that, much like an unstoppered bottle, a flood of inane questions would pour from Watson’s moustached mouth.

But to his surprise, his friend only tilted his head and considered him with a compassionate eye. “Do you still love her?”

Holmes paused. But the answer was unequivocal.

“Yes.”

Watson smiled. “Then what are you still doing here?”

oOo

She was most certainly cursed. Returned to London not three days and she had run into the one man she had hoped to forever avoid.

She closed her eyes, his countenance burned into her memory. He had not changed much in the past 6 years and he still had the ability to stop her heart with one look into his quicksilver eyes.

Her husband had not ever been able to do that. Her mouth twisted in memory of her late husband, Thomas. She had been very fond of him, and he her, but theirs was not a marriage made for love. They were content to remain friends and portray themselves as a happy couple for the sake of appearances. But he would never have her heart.

His death had been sudden, unexpected. She was grateful that at least he had not suffered, but she missed him dreadfully. They had become dear friends and now…

Now she was alone.

Her feet carried her down the still familiar path toward the park. The fall air was crisp and not many ventured out in the evening cold. She came upon a solitary bench and, with a bittersweet smile, she sat down and slowly traced her fingers along the worn wood of the arm.

It was their bench. Hers and Sherlock’s. Where they would meet, speak of his cases and her secretive studies, and watch London pass by. Where she had fallen in love with him.

Where she had read the letter that broke her heart.

“May I join you?”

Of course, he would know she would come here.

She sighed and gestured to the spot next to her in invitation. The bench shifted under his burden. She kept her gaze firmly ahead, but could see his profile from the corner of her eye.

He started to speak, but then stopped, the words falling short of existence. She clenched her hands in her lap as he struggled.

“Were you happy?”

She swallowed hard. “As happy as I could have been.”

His brow furrowed.

“Thomas was a dear, dear friend. But we did not love each other.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “It is hard to be happy in a marriage when one’s heart belongs to another.”

“His heart?” He asked, his voice rough. “Or yours?”

She finally turned to look at him. He was already watching her, his eyes full of an emotion she dared not hope to misunderstand. “You already know the answer, Sherlock.”

She stood and began to walk away, not realising he had hastened to follow until he caught her wrist. She turned in surprise, only to find herself im his arms and being thoroughly kissed, more tenderly, more lovingly than she’d ever been before. Her heart raced and any thought of propriety fled when his hand traced her cheek, sending tingles of pleasure along her back.

All too briefly, he pulled away. She kept her eyes shut and tried to control her runaway heart.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, as breathless as she. She flushed with anger at letting him use her heart so recklessly, but it fled when he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, then her palm, cradling it against his cheek. Was this the same man who had spurned her so cruelly and broke her heart six years ago? “My heart is yours, it always has been. Please. Forgive me, Molly.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“Say it again.”

“Forgive me.”

She shook her head, a smile pulling at her lips. “No. My name.”

A spark of hope lit in his eyes.

“Molly.” He kissed her hand. “Molly.” Her cheek. “Molly.” Her temple.

She closed her eyes as he whispered her name one last time and held her close. Hope, long forgotten, unfurled in her chest, warm and bright. And suddenly, the future didn’t seem so lonely after all.


End file.
